A Suitable Vengeance

Deborah worked with a lightness of both heart and spirit that she would have thought impossible a mere two hours before. She found herself humming, occasionally singing a line or two from old songs that popped into her head out of nowhere: the Beatles, Buddy Holly, an ancient Cliff Richard she didn’t even know she knew. In the darkroom, she clipped the leader from the roll of exposed film, spooling it into the developing tank in an automatic process that was second nature to her. She didn’t pause to reflect upon the work itself or upon the carefree manner in which she did it. Nor did she pause to think about how and why time and circumstances had somehow reversed themselves, allowing her former childhood affection for St. James to blossom, renewed, while they talked together in the lab. She was merely grateful that it had somehow happened, she was merely grateful for the promise it held that rancour could at last be put to rest between them.

How right she had been to follow her instincts and come to Chelsea to be with Simon tonight. How happy she had felt to see his face alter the moment he realised that no blame could be laid at his sister’s feet. How comfortable she had been to follow him to his bedroom, to stand chatting and laughing while he rooted out the roll of film. They were comrades again, sharing their thoughts, listening to each other, debating, and reflecting.

Joy in communicating had been the hallmark of their relationship prior to her three-year stay in America. And those minutes in the lab, in his bedroom afterwards, had brought back to her the vivid memory of that joy, if not the full intensity of the joy itself. She saw what he had once been to her as a series of images, playing in the field of her mind. These whirled her back through childhood and adolescence, vast periods of time that she shared with him.

He was her history in a thousand different ways: listening to her woes, softening the blow of disappointments, reading to her, talking to her, watching her grow. He had seen the very worst that she was—her temper tantrums, her stubborn pride, her inability to accept defeat, the demands for perfection which she placed upon herself, the difficulty she faced in forgiving weakness in others. He had seen this and more, and never had he been anything less than completely accepting. He might advise or instruct, he might warn or admonish. But he always accepted. And she had known he always would from the moment when, as an eighteen-year-old boy, he had squatted before her at the side of her mother’s grave where she was trying to be brave, striving for indifference, making a show of the fact that at seven years old she could stand the terror of a devastating loss that she barely understood. He had drawn her into his arms with five simple words which effectively freed her to be who and what she really was for the rest of her life: “It’s all right to cry.”

He had helped her grow up, encouraged her in every way, and let her go when it was time for her to leave. But it was that final action—his obvious willingness to release her into her own adulthood without a word or action to stop her from leaving him—which had undermined their relationship, creating a rankling that had gnawed within her. And because the very worst she could be was the part of her that rose to the surface when she was first confronted with his intention to subject them both to three years of separation heightened by silence, she had let joy wither, she had let warmth die, she had given herself over to a need to hurt him. And she had done so, achieving a revenge that was at once initially satisfying, pure and simple. But now she saw that the attainment of such a goal was at best a Pyrrhic victory, and any vengeance she had wrought upon Simon had merely ricocheted, wounding herself.

Only in speaking the truth did there exist any hope to rebuild a friendship with him. Only in confession, expiation, and forgiveness did there lie the possibility of retrieving joy. And she wanted joy. Nothing meant more than being comfortable with him again, talking to him as she had in her childhood, as his little sister, his comrade, and his friend. She wanted nothing more. For what had long been at the festering core of her painful separation from Simon was the thwarted desire to be taken to his bed so that she might know that he truly wanted her, so that she might finally be assured that she hadn’t just imagined those long ago moments when he had allowed her to see what she had convinced herself was honest desire.

But the need for that satisfaction and knowledge had long since been consumed by the flames of her love for Tommy. And it was Tommy now who would give her the courage to speak the truth. For as she held the film’s negatives to the light, searching for the pictures of the Cambrey cottage, she saw the pictures of Lynley as well, cooperatively posing with the Nanrunnel players. She felt a rush of gratitude and devotion just studying him—the way he threw back his head in a burst of laughter, the way his hair shone, the shape of his mouth. She knew that Tommy was where the loyalty of her adulthood lay. He was the future towards which she was moving. But she couldn’t reach him with an unfettered heart without laying rest to the past.

She worked through the process of enlarging the photographs which St. James had taken in the Cambrey cottage. From enlarger, to developer, to stop bath, to fixer. All the time her mind was taken up with what she would say to him, how she would say it, and whether her explanation and apology could possibly suffice to end their estrangement.

It was nearly midnight when she’d completed her work in the darkroom: the developing, the washing, the drying, the cleaning up. She switched off the lights, gathered up the photographs, and went in search of St. James.